Too Much, Too Young
by 630leosa
Summary: Short introspective story about Draco Malfoy. Set during Christmastime during the Deathly Hallows storyline.


He staggered into his room and locked the door before collapsing onto his bed with his face buried in his pillow.

He was only seventeen; the worst he should be worrying about right now is studying for his N.E.W.T.s, and wondering what job to apply for. Wouldn't it be easier to just suffocate himself now? He was dead anyway: he'd signed away his life when he got that damn Dark Mark on his arm. Feeling his air running out, he used what strength he had left to roll onto his back.

Her training was getting more and more brutal; he'd actually passed out during that last Cruciatus curse. He felt sure that she'd have kept up the training till he died of exhaustion, or from the pain of her curses. If it weren't for his mother, he'd still be there. Training, training non-stop, and when he wasn't training the Dark Lord himself had him perform the curses he'd endured on one his victims.

His father kept telling him he should be proud, that many Death Eaters would kill to have the opportunities the Dark Lord gave him. But how could he be proud? It made him _sick_ to think that he'd felt that way last year when the Dark Lord ordered him to kill his Headmaster. The thought still made his blood run cold: _he_ had been responsible, _he_ had repaired the cabinet.

He had been so _proud_ to do the Dark Lord's bidding, so _proud_ to be chosen to do the task; it wasn't until he started to have problems that he realized the full extent of what he'd been asked to do. Repairing the cabinet had been more difficult than he'd thought, it took him nearly a year to complete. A _year_, knowing full well that if he failed, he and his parents would die. A _year_, knowing that he'd eventually have to face one of the most powerful wizards, and _kill_ him. Despite his fear, and stress, he had let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. He had faced Dumbledore on the Astronomy tower.

But the main thing that he was known for, the main reason that he was tortured daily to train him to be a killer, was that he couldn't finish the job. Snape had stepped in at the last moment and saved him from having to do the deed, _Snape_ killed Dumbledore, not him.

He'd hated himself after that, but looking back now, part of him really _was_ proud of what he'd done. He may not have been brave enough to kill someone, but was that really a bad thing? Didn't the fact that he wasn't a killer mean that there was still hope for him? That maybe after all this, he wouldn't end up dead or in Azkaban.

He'd always hated Harry Potter, and his _muggle-loving_ friends… Especially that mudblood, Granger. He felt the side of his mouth twitch into a half-smile. The main reason that he loved being great at Occlumency was that nobody even suspected how he secretly hoped that the Dark Lord would be defeated - and he knew that Harry Potter was the only person alive that could defeat him.

He was still quite weak from his latest training session with his aunt, Bellatrix, but he forced himself to sit up and he picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet that his mother had left on his bedside table. As he expected, Harry's face was staring back at him from the front cover, which stated that Undesirable No. 1 was still on the run.

Flicking through the pages, he also noticed Granger's picture. She was listed on a page of muggle-borns that hadn't shown up for questioning at the Ministry. He'd been brought up all his life to hate muggle-borns, but was that really the only reason he'd been so mean to her? He had many reasons to hate her: she'd been a bossy know-it-all, with bushy hair and big teeth; his father was openly ashamed of him because she'd got better grades than him; and, of course, she'd slapped him in the face during their third year at Hogwarts.

Without realizing it, he subconsciously rubbed his cheek where she'd hit him four years ago.

He had many reasons to hate her, but looking back he only ever seemed to remind her how much of a _'filthy little mudblood'_ she was. For a moment he wondered what would have happened if he hadn't been raised to hate her kind: they might even have been friends. He quickly shook his head, as if to shake away the very thought. His head was pounding but he wouldn't let himself dwell on the past, it was done. They could never be friends and he was sure he wouldn't want to be.

He threw the paper across the room, tired of reading the lies that it was forced to print.

He looked around his room at all the stuff that used to be important to him. His broom was no longer top of the range, he didn't suspect he'd use it much now - there didn't seem much point in Quidditch anymore. His school clothes were hanging up in his wardrobe, with his green tie twisted round the handle like a silver and green snake.

His own grey eyes were watching him from the photos dotted around his room: him outside the mansion on his way to his first day at Hogwarts; him showing off on his Nimbus 2001 in his brand-new Quidditch outfit; him in the Slytherin common room, wrapping his arm round Pansy Parkinson's waist, all dressed up for the Yule ball.

In all of the photos he was smiling, not a care in the world, loving just being himself. There were no photos since he got the Mark, no smiling photos of him showing how much he loved being a Death Eater. The closest thing was a family portrait he knew was in the hallway - his mother and father are smiling, celebrating the fact that his father had 'broken out' of Azkaban, and he is stood in front of them with a very weak smile that he'd faked for the camera.

He lay back down on his bed and closed his eyes, trying not to listen to the sound of the annual Malfoy Christmas party downstairs that his father insisted upon, despite the situation. He tried not to cry, not to think, not to feel. He tried to remember what it'd been like in that other lifetime when he could love what he was doing and live without fear, when he cared what his father thought of him… And just for a second he fooled himself: he thought that when he opened his eyes he'd be lying on the Quidditch field, looking up at Harry Potter holding the golden Snitch, with Pansy panicking and insisting that he go to the hospital wing. For a split second, he could kid himself that this was all a nightmare that had never happened.

He wasn't a Death Eater; there were no undesirables, no fear. He was just plain old seventeen-year-old Draco Malfoy.


End file.
